


7. six different ways

by winterfire22



Series: the losers kill It at age 13 and they all go to college together and everything is better [8]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Gen, NOT a billphobic fic, aka: bill's redemption tale, background Stan/Patty, background benverly, background reddie, but in this universe those events will never happen, except bill maybe hasnt processed some things, feel free to read this as bike/hanbrough i'm right there with u, he had to reckon with everything in it ch. 2, in which the losers defeat it for good at age 13 and go to college together and everything is better, part of my college au, post kale incident and whatnot, so he has to reckon with things differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfire22/pseuds/winterfire22
Summary: it's a rainy evening. bill denbrough goes for a drive.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough and all the losers
Series: the losers kill It at age 13 and they all go to college together and everything is better [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490324
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	7. six different ways

_this is stranger_  
_than i ever thought_  
_six different ways_  
_inside my heart_

In some ways, moving to Orono to attend the University of Maine felt awfully similar to being back home in Derry.

Sometimes there’s a scent hanging in the air, or a sound whispering through the trees, or a feeling caked over the morning light that feels exactly like Derry. Sometimes Bill catches sight of a group of old women gossiping, or he hears the shrill coursing of the Penobscot river, or he sees a bike on the ground in a front yard, and he might as well be a few hours northwest, riding Silver along the banks of the Kenduskeag river. Damming it up with his friends for no real reason. Throwing rocks into its churning waters.

The Kenduskeag held onto terrible things. Just below its surface, they gleaned. Moments. Memories. Feelings. Sharp and fragmented things-- always the things you wanted to forget the most, lurking under the glassy dark water. The things you wished you could leave behind. Since the Kenduskeag is a tributary of the Penobscot, maybe some of those things have released into this water too. Maybe some of those things have followed Bill out.

When he got in his car and left his fraternity house on the U of Maine campus, he _did_ have a destination in mind. There was someplace in particular he meant to go. Some errand, maybe, he meant to take care of-- something he was supposed to pick up at the store, or some library book he was supposed to turn in, or some lab partner whose notes he was supposed to return. Something, for sure. But somewhere between pulling out of the Greek row parking lot and winding his way through the narrow campus streets, he forgot.

Now he’s heading south-- toward Bangor. 

Whatever errand he’d meant to deal with, it probably didn’t matter, anyway.

Bill sighs. Adjusts his hands around the steering wheel. 

He has a headache. It had been developing slowly but surely all through the group meeting and then dinner at the frat-- between the clink of silverware against plates, the heavy smell of burgers and fries and salad dressing, and the loud voices of his fraternity brothers, he’d almost started feeling sick. He’s itching to get back to his and Mike’s apartment a couple miles away from campus-- ready to fall into his bed and read a few chapters of the horror novel he’s been slowly muddling his way through. It’s due back at the campus library in a few days, anyway. He needs to finish it. But for some reason, he continues driving in the wrong direction. He can’t go home yet.

(so it must not have been a library book that needed to be turned in, he thinks numbly, because that’s the only one i have and it’s not due yet)

He hadn’t even wanted to go to the stupid chapter meeting. But even though he doesn’t live in the fraternity house anymore, he’s still a part of the fraternity, and all of the brothers are required to show up for dinner and meetings a few times a month.

He really does have a headache, though. And it’s getting worse.

(why don’t i keep any aspirin in my car?)

The steady drum of a heavy northern rain against his windshield isn’t helping.

In one of the horror novels he’d read in his late teens, the protagonist was a recovering alcoholic. When he was hungover, he had a habit of putting aspirin in his mouth, dry, and crunching it up so its effects would release faster. Bill finds himself thinking about how bitter and awful that must taste as he continues driving. How your mouth would protest with every second. How the powdery remnants of the pill would stick against your tongue and the insides of your cheeks and in the grooves of your teeth, leaving their nasty taste behind. Wondering if the relief is even worth it.

(it can’t be.)

Halfway to Bangor. He finds himself driving through Eddington, on the eastern side of the Penobscot river. As he does, he catches sight of the intersection he’d need to turn left into if he were trying to get to Stan’s house. His eyes linger there for a moment as he drives past it.

Down that street maybe seven or eight blocks, tucked into a small blue two bedroom rental house, having skipped fraternities or roommates or upperclassmen dorms, Stan is probably enjoying a peaceful evening with his wife and their baby. Maybe he’s doing dishes. Maybe he’s playing with Andy on the living room floor. Maybe he’s putting Andy to bed. It’s a few minutes past seven. Bill doesn’t know what time babies go to bed.

He makes it out of Eddington in another minute or two. Small town, compared to Bangor and even Orono-- it’s barely a few streets and a convenience store or two and a restaurant. But then again, that’s why Stan lives there. It’s a small town; it’s cheap. He could only afford a tiny apartment in Orono or Bangor, but in Eddington, he can rent an entire house with a little yard. And it’s quieter than Orono, with its endless college parties, or Bangor, with its city sounds and heavy streetlights-- Stan was never one for loud parties or late nights. Small, quiet, cheap, but close enough to Orono for Stan and Patty to easily make it onto campus, and close enough to Bangor that they can easily drop the baby at Richie’s apartment any time they need a babysitter. 

Or so Bill has heard.

Secondhand. From their other friends-- mostly just from Mike and Eddie, the only ones who will really still talk to him.

Because, see, when Andrew Uris was born during the summer after their junior year of college came to a close, in late June of 1997, Stan didn’t tell Bill. Stan called and told Mike, who mentioned it to Bill a few days later. Bill hadn’t even known they were having a boy. Apparently Mike had known for months. Apparently Richie, Ben, Eddie, and Beverly had known as well.

He hadn’t even known they were having a baby at all until Richie said something about it-- a handful of weeks after everyone else found out.

Sure, Bill didn’t see his old friends as much as he used to. He’d gone to high school in Portland; they’d grown apart. And then he’d gotten wrapped up in college, the fraternity, part time jobs, dating Audra on and off, and, most of all, trying to write a novel. 

By his twenty second birthday, he had short stories published in three different literary magazines. Hard work and dedication pay off.

Andy Uris is almost a year old now. College is almost just a memory. Finals are right around the corner. Bill can count the number of times he’s seen Stan’s son on his two hands.

(my best friend, bill’s mind supplies glumly as he makes it into bangor; well okay one of my best friends. my first friend to have a kid. and he didn’t even wanna tell me about it.)

(i didn’t ever ask, either, bill realizes slowly. didn’t ask if it was going to be a boy or girl, didn’t ask when it was supposed to be born, didn’t really ask to see him once he was born)

(why didn’t i?)

He draws a deep breath through his nose and flicks on his turn signal to get off the main busy streets of the city. 

(maybe just because i’ve never really been around babies before. not since i was a little kid anyway. not since my little brother. i don’t know how to act around babies and besides i have my own shit going on)

(yeah, his mind responds, but everyone has their own shit going on. and do you think fucking trashmouth tozier knew how to act around babies when stan’s kid was born? you think even stan knew? they learned. everyone learned but you.)

He’s cruising down a sidestreet now. A residential one-- a nice neighborhood, all whitewashed houses with wide yards and two car garages. Some of them have security system signs staked into their front yards. Some of them have the lights on and the windows open, illuminating family dinners and card games and kids playing and people watching TV or doing the dishes. Golden retrievers taking naps. Automatic sprinklers chanting at front yards.

(if richie tozier, of all people, his mind begins-- can learn how to take care of a baby to the point that said baby’s parents trust him to babysit… why couldn’t you even call to ask about how things were going or try to see him?)

Bill feels a pulse of anger in his fingers. They tighten around his steering wheel. Richie can really light a fire in a guy’s head-- he can really make you mad. All loud mouth and your mom jokes and rants, he’s one of the most frustrating people Bill has ever met. 

But he can really make you laugh, too. He can turn any situation into something hilarious. He can cheer you up when you’re digging yourself into a hole. He always has weed and snacks to share, and ideas for games to play or things to do. And he can really make you feel loved. He can really, _really_ make you feel loved.

(but not me, bill thinks. not right now. because he’s mad at me.)

He flicks his blinker on last minute and hangs a left turn for no real reason.

(eddie isn’t even mad at me. so why the fuck is richie mad on his behalf? that isn’t fair to eddie. or to me. god that really pisses me off. i mean he was fucking slapping me with kale leaves and it isn’t even his fight. if eddie was mad at me he would say so. eddie doesn't need richie to stand up for him. let eddie speak for himself.)

He comes to a stop sign. His windshield wipers lag a little on their trek to clear the windshield, so he hesitates behind the sign for an extra two seconds or so. Traffic is empty, so it doesn’t matter. There’s no one driving around these residential streets. 

The second part of that thought tugs at Bill’s consciousness. He shoos it away. Pretends it isn’t there. Asks it to please shut the fuck up and fuck the fuck off.

It flows anyway. 

(richie loves ferociously. that’s always something bill had admired about him, ever since they were little kids. his capacity to love. of course richie is going to be mad on eddie’s behalf even if eddie isn’t mad. because richie’s love for eddie is-- has always been-- a living thing. a heavy thing that sometimes weighed over all of them. a piece of him as vital as his arms or his legs or his glasses.)

Richie is one of Bill’s best friends. Has been since they were in elementary school. But you can’t ask Richie to choose between Eddie and anyone else-- he’ll always choose Eddie. And he should.

(i wonder if i would choose audra that fervently. if i would ever play for her side as freely as richie does for eddie. i hope i would.)

The rain has really begun to pick up. It’s almost a deluge. It’s beginning to remind Bill of the flood of ‘88. The day he sat in his room in his pajamas, watching the rain outside the window, feigning worse symptoms than he really had, fake coughing-- clinging to the dregs of his expiring flu because he didn’t feel like going out in the rain or being nagged by his little brother.

(don’t think about that, he shoves desperately at his subconscious; think about anything but that. think about all the ways you’ve inevitably fucked up your relationships with your friends since moving to u of maine. think about how much richie hates you and how far stan has pushed you aside.)

He swallows hard. His windshield wipers can’t keep up with the heavy pour of rain; it’s like a trap door has been pulled aside in the heavens and everything that was pent up is just dumping down hungrily. It’s monstrously loud against the roof of his car. Usually, he would have the radio on to drown it out, but that just isn’t the case tonight.

Bill rubs at his eyes and straightens the watch he wears on his left wrist. He’s tired. His head hurts bad. Something is squeezing hard inside his chest.

He should have known he’d end up trying not to cry in his car sooner or later. Should’ve known-- because he hasn’t been able to write anything in days, because he’s barely been getting his homework done, because he either eats everything in sight or absolutely nothing and there’s no in between.

Muscle memory has taken Bill to a different part of Bangor; a street that is half residential, half commercial. Coffee shops, bars, second hand stores, a real estate office or two, a hair salon. A convenience store and a pet supply store right next to each other, and between them, the door into Richie and Beverly’s apartment building.

He looks toward the door as he drives past it. He knows the code by heart-- 5865-- and even though the apartment’s parking lot is on the other side of the building, there’s an empty parking spot right here in front of the pet store. He could park and go inside and hike the two flights of stairs and be at Richie and Beverly’s door in seconds.

But he doesn’t want to see anyone, right now, and he certainly doesn’t feel like he’s welcome to show up at their door unannounced. Especially after one of the most recent times he’d been there.

(it was a party. they always called it that, even if it was just some combination of some members the losers’ club and maybe patty and/or audra and/or a date of mike’s-- a party. at the absolute most they could scrape together eleven people, one of whom is a little baby who would end up asleep in a collapsible crib in beverly’s room by nine. but still, always, they called it a party.)

(and at this one in particular, it was six-- it was mike, ben, beverly, eddie, richie, and bill. andy was teething so stan and patty had stayed home with him. bill and audra had been broken up that weekend. though he was very popular with the ladies on campus, mike was in between love interests at the time, so he hadn’t brought a date either. richie had gone to the kitchen for refills; bill had started telling eddie about his latest short story. without meaning to, he’d triggered eddie’s hypochondria or whatever the fuck. richie refused to even make eye contact with him for the rest of the night, even though eddie was fine eventually.)

(god, bill thinks, more than a little frustrated, as he leaves richie and beverly’s block behind him-- again with that. again with richie getting mad at me for eddie’s sake when eddie isn’t even mad in the first place. how am i supposed to remember every single little thing that freaks him out. nobody ever bothered keeping quiet about certain topics for my sake anyway. he’ll be fucking fine.)

So Richie probably hates him. He knows Beverly isn’t his biggest fan lately, either. Because the party after that last one, there had been a bit of a misunderstanding.

He shakes his head. (that wasn’t a fucking misunderstanding. she understood what you were doing perfectly well.)

It had been a really nice night. It was just the seven of them, all together, the full loser’s club without any of their usual extras. They were all sitting around Richie and Bev’s living room, pregaming; talking, laughing, drinking, arguing over a particularly passionate game of Scattergories, listening to music--

(i guess it wasn’t that nice of a night for me, bill amends. but everyone else seemed happy.)

Audra had broken up with him earlier that day. Told him it was final. Told him there would be no making up followed by making out. He half believed her. To cope with it, he was putting back drinks faster than usual, wrapping himself up in the dumb game he was playing with Mike, Eddie, Richie, and Stan, and trying not to think about her. But then his pager beeped from his pocket; she’d called him. He hurriedly returned the call, shutting himself into Bev and Richie’s laundry room, pacing its length even though it was practically a closet. 

She’d been drinking too. He could hear her three roommates in the background. She told Bill she meant it. That it was over between them; that she didn’t want anything to do with him.

(but if it’s over, he remembers thinking; why the fuck is she calling me? if she’s calling me it means she’s thinking about me.)

He’d told her fine. Do what you want. Maybe I’ll do what I want, too. She’d hung up on him.

When he made it back to the living room, everyone was getting ready to go to their usual bar, which was a small but fun place a couple blocks from the apartment. So they went. And they danced. And they drank more. And he ended up talking to Audra on the pay phone in the bar’s parking lot, pleading with her, begging her. She’d been firm. No. 

So he went back inside the bar and he waited for Ben to get up to get water and he slid into the booth next to Beverly and flirted his heart out. She was laughing it off the whole time, he could tell-- could feel her soft rejection-- but he kept going. And then he tried to kiss her and she squirmed away and he felt like a real asshole.

It hadn’t even been worth it in any sense. When he’d shown up at Audra’s door a week later, full of apologies, she’d agreed to give their relationship another shot.

(and you wouldn’t even look at ben the rest of the night, bill recalls glumly, beginning to feel guilt gum up his chest; because you know. you know how much he loves her. how long he’s loved her. and how much everybody used to look up to you when you were a kid. Because when you were thirteen, you loved them fiercely, and you were brave, and you would have never done anything to hurt them-- except that one time you punched richie but like he deserved it-- and you’re not any of those things anymore.)

Ben didn’t deserve the hurt Bill had certainly caused him that night at the bar. Beverly didn’t deserve to feel preyed upon by one of her best friends. Maybe he and Beverly had crushed on each other a little bit and even kissed once when they were thirteen, but it was just puppy love-- just something light and crisp and exciting and bright, something that drifted in and around like a soft summer breeze, something that dissipated peacefully once its time was up. Those moments they had shared had been good memories for both of them. But now they’re probably ruined. And Beverly probably won’t want to hang out with Bill anymore, just like how Stan and Richie don’t want to hang out with him anymore. And Ben, now that he thinks about it. That’s four.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Bill asks himself out loud, hitting the heel of his palm against the bottom of the steering wheel a few times.

The resentment, sadness, and guilt that had been clawing him all night turns into white hot anger for a second.

Anger at himself.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He repeats louder, shakier, his eyes almost burning now too.

He’s a couple streets away from Beverly and Richie’s apartment. Sloppily, he pulls over onto the side of the road. He leans his forehead against the steering wheel.

(when you lost your little brother, you didn’t stop being a big brother. you just started big brothering eddie. maybe being able to do that even kind of helped you feel better about your sorry sorry life. but now you’ve let him down and for some reason he’s still on your side and maybe that hurts fucking worse than if he would just hate you.)

Bill had forgotten to pick him up after his wisdom teeth surgery. He hadn’t even been in Bangor or Orono that day-- he’d gone all the way to Portland. He can’t even remember the purpose of the trip now. But he’s pretty confident that it was nothing important. Nothing worth letting his best friend down for.

And he’d made Eddie hyperventilate at that one party. And he’d blown the guy off several times to write or hang out with Audra instead. And he’d reacted badly when Eddie came out to him.

(what the fuck is wrong with you, he thinks for a third time. one of the people you love the most in the world. he was probably nervous as fuck to tell you. and you just blew him off and made it about yourself. because of course you did. you never had any reason to ever think he was into you, anyway. it was obviously richie-- anyone with half a brain cell could see that. you’re just a self important asshole.)

He’d made a half-assed, vague apology over that one, at least-- only like a week later, when everyone was hanging out at Richie and Bev’s. He’d explained his reaction by saying that he was just surprised and taken off guard. Eddie had told him it was fine. But Richie’s narrowed eyes had suggested a different story. 

He felt Stan glaring at him that night, too. If you hurt Eddie, you piss off Richie, and if you piss off Richie, you more than likely piss off Stan. It’s like the world’s worst conga line.

Eddie, because of multiple little things that really shouldn’t all matter that much. Richie, because of Eddie. Beverly, because he’d hit on her. Ben, for the same reason. Stan, because Bill wasn’t interested enough in his baby or some shit.

(stop it, bill thinks to himself, forehead still leaned against the steering wheel. he’s beginning to get sick of himself. beginning to see why none of his friends seem to like him anymore.)

(it’s because you’re defensive. you try to make it seem like it isn’t your fault or it isn’t a big deal.)

So five of his friends maybe hate him now. Running through the list again, okay, he can start to understand where they’re coming from. Guilt edges onto the tops of his ears.

Because then there’s Mike. Mike, with his soft smile, his infinite well of patience, his willingness to adapt to Bill’s needs in any situation. Mike, with his apparent refusal to give up on Bill. His refusal to run out of second and third and fourth and fifth chances. From the moment they’d met when they were kids, he felt understood by Mike. They were best friends within days of talking to each other for the first time. Something in Bill just relaxed when he was around Mike. Something softened.

(you are so fucking lucky to have mike.)

He draws an unsteady breath. The guilt is still there, but for a moment it’s washed over with gratefulness. His mind cycles through all the things Mike has done for him-- Mike found their apartment for them when Bill had given him nothing but a half-assed “sure I’ll move in with you”, Mike made sure Bill ate and slept, Mike was always happy to help Bill with anything or listen to him rant or complain or explain his clumsy way through a story idea. 

Mike was there to see all the times Bill let the others down. Maybe not every single moment-- but a good chunk of them, at least. Enough to know what’s been going on. And even after that, he’s still patient and kind and warm.

And what has Bill done in return? Paced around their apartment at 3 in the morning, still wearing the heavy boots he always wore because they afforded him an extra two or so inches of height? Left dishes in the sink? Laundry in the dryer? Textbooks and notebooks and whatever else all over the living room?

Maybe he’s mad at Stan and Richie. Maybe he’s even mad at Eddie, a little bit. But he has absolutely no reason to be mad at Mike. If he’s mistreated Mike these past few years-- which, now that he thinks about it, now that he thinks about everything, there’s no way he hasn’t-- he owes Mike a big apology and a big ‘thanks for putting up with me’.

(you need to value the people who love you and who you love, you big fucking dickhead, he thinks at himself. because they could be gone at any moment.)

(you know that better than most people your age.)

His eyes burn harder, and within a few seconds, they start to spill over. His hands clutch over his face.

(georgie.)

He’s been half mourning his baby brother all night. All day. All his life.

The rain slams hard against his windshield, and for a second, it almost sounds like hail. It’s loud enough to drown out the pathetic sounds he’s making, at least. 

(georgie. a chorus of voices runs through his mind; his parents’ voices telling him to stay out of georgie’s room and to stop trying to find him and to stop bringing georgie up. his friends’ voices, tiptoeing around the topic, half-assedly agreeing that, sure, georgie isn’t dead, he’s missing. the stupid fucking clown’s voice, taunting him. georgie’s voice. a voice that will be forever frozen at the soft, thin, high timbre of a first grader. no matter how old bill gets and how much he accomplishes and how grown up he becomes, georgie’s voice will always be stuck small. he will be thirty, forty, fifty, and his brother will still be seven.)

He sobs into his hands, his headache pulsing harder and more painfully, his chest and throat tightening up. If Georgie were alive now, he’d be in high school. He’d be inching toward adulthood, applying to colleges, maybe even getting ready to head off to U of Maine like his big brother. Maybe Bill would be giving him dating advice. Teaching him how to drive. Sneaking him Just One Beer when he’s home for holidays.

(it’s not fair it’s not right it’s not fair! bill’s mind screams. why did it have to be my brother! of all the kids in derry!)

He stays right there for a long time, crying into his hands, feeling more alone than he has since he was thirteen. It lasts longer than he would have thought possible. The rain doesn’t let up either.

It’s still drizzling when he finally gets ahold of himself and shakily takes his car out of park. He pulls out of the spot. Drags himself back onto the main roads, back through Eddington, back toward Orono. 

His chest is sore, his eyes are sore, but his head feels better. Not like the headache has gone away completely-- but like the worst is over. Like he’s getting there.

He needs to apologize to his friends. Needs to thank them. He knows who to start with. And after that first apology, he needs to start acting like himself again.

When Bill makes it to the parking lot of his apartment building, he sees that Mike’s maroon Subaru is parked neatly in one of their two assigned spots. He nudges his car into the other spot, takes a moment to wipe at his tear-streaked face, and gets out.

(they helped you look for him. they helped you avenge him. they all huddled around you and hugged you when it finally sank in that he really was dead, for fuck’s sake. they all got scars helping you-- inside and out. eddie even broke his arm. stan hasn’t stopped looking over his shoulder in a decade. beverly has nightmares. who knows what other after effects are lingering behind their eyes that they haven’t shared with you.)

(because why would they share anything with you, at this point?)

He rubs at his face again as he heads up the stairs. 

(i’m going to make things right.)

(starting right now.)

His hand a little unsteady, Bill slides his key into the lock and twists it open. 

And Mike is right there. Because of course he is-- because he’s always right there when Bill needs him to be.

“Heya, Big Bill,” Mike says with a grin. He has an empty reusable water bottle in his hand-- he’s probably heading to the kitchen to fill it, judging by his trajectory.

Bill doesn’t greet him back. Instead, he closes the space between them, and envelopes his friend in a hug. 

Clearly a bit taken aback, it takes Mike a second to reciprocate. “What’s going on, man?”

“I’m sorry,” Bill says, his voice sounding dry and pathetic to his ears. “For everything. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?” Mike asks.

“Just thank you,” Bill says. He pulls away. Wipes at his face again. “I… I’ve fucked up, you know, a lot. Recently. Thank you for putting up with it, I guess. I… I need to apologize to everyone else.”

A soft, knowing half-smile at his lips, Mike claps bill on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, buddy.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!!!!!! please leave a comment :)


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